


I Sold My Soul for $5 While Waiting in a Wal-Mart Line

by Vicenderbeth



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Hurt, If you want to see the comfort you need to comment down below to let me know, M/M, Mild Gore, Not Incest, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Xanax, no actual sex scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 17:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicenderbeth/pseuds/Vicenderbeth
Summary: Scout and drugs. Scout loves drugs. Scout dances daintily in a vicious cycle of addiction. Drugs, man. Did you think they were real fucked up when your psychiatrists prescribed them to you several months ago and you took it with trust?





	I Sold My Soul for $5 While Waiting in a Wal-Mart Line

**Author's Note:**

> [Verse 1: Ruby da Cherry]  
> I got a drip, catch me ducking  
> All of these bitches ain't fuckin' me, no  
> Can't hold a conversation with no one but my cousin  
> He tell me: "Don't worry, the money is comin'  
> These bitches is coming"  
> Yeah  
> The only question I got now  
> Will I see it before I end up dug in the ground  
> Lay low at the bottom of a tulip bed  
> They know Ruby got a lot of useless thread  
> Cut me open, let me rest  
> There ain't nothin' in my chest  
> A hollow cage that caused my death  
> I'm hauled away, just pause my breath
> 
> ==
> 
> Please leave a comment. It would mean the fucking world to me, and would help me to wean off addictions of my own. Thanks.

_Ah fuck, ah fuck, ah fuck, ah fuck, ah fuck. He's gonna die. There's no way that he'd make it through this one._

A naked BLU Scout stumbled and grasped blindly at the spherical knob to his room though it was a bright afternoon and accidentally stepped on his towel, falling face-first into the small bed. He needed it. The shipment comes Monday and he didn't have nearly enough to get him through three more days, but he knew he needed it right there and then before he fucking dies in such a shitty fashion that respawn wouldn't do shit to save him. He felt as if he was floating a foot above the dirty carpet, swaying like a lone leaf in Autumn wind and undergoing a pathetic show of decay. Impermanent and fleeting, he was a confession to a girl that was never spoken, he was a minor role that only appeared once in a motion picture, he was a billion-dollar idea that existed for twenty seconds. He will die, there was no doubt about it but he could not let it happen.

He turned over on his back with considerable difficulty and felt under and around his pillow frantically for a small, obscure bottle that made the world's most beautiful rattling sound in Scout's humble opinion as he picked it up. Yes, yes. He could hardly see with his tear ducts constantly refilling his eyes to the brim, his hands shook with such an intensity that he nearly dropped the bottle when he unscrewed the white cap, shaking out a few pale tablets and downed them with some watered-out whiskey in one go and he slumped back into the wrinkled bed covers, waiting for it to kick in.

Real slow, real mellow. The war, the game, the bloodshed, real fucking mellow. Scout chuckled to himself as the feelings of despair and lightheadedness slowly faded away. He's not gonna die, with the respawn and all it's not gonna happen. Even if he gets hurt-- what a far-away thought the concept of death is to him now-- Doc will just stick that Medigun up his ass again, a few whiffs of that magical goodness and he would be good as new. He’s gonna bash the BLUs’ heads open on Monday for sure. With just his bat. Even that would be very mellow, a smooth and streamlined series of motion before his faceless enemies hit the ground again on Monday, respawn catching and mending them safe and sound like a child in a cradle on Monday, putting their pieces back together so they may walk out again just to get dominated by him alone on Monday. He’d say something witty, something smart, something that packs a punch as hard as his bat on Monday.

Monday. He can make it till Monday. And when he runs out, he'll just sneak into the infirmary to see if Medic placed the valium bottles in the same place as last month. Doesn't hit as strong as the ones he had but it's alright, he'll make it. He felt incredibly tranquil as he pulled a corner of the bedsheet over to cover himself for a little afternoon nap. After all, Ma said that boys are sleep-deprived and whatnot and taking a break from scoring big for his team doesn't hurt anybody.

—

He absently kicked at a broken cola bottle, shattering it even further with the heel of his bare foot. He could not feel anything when the shards of glass sank further and further into his soles, a benzodiazepine-induced calm embraced him like the loving arms of his mother and he felt incredibly secure walking in the familiar neighborhood. Rows of tiny, shabby townhouses squeezed together on both sides of the room, some with plywood boards to make up for the missing doors or windows. He curiously turned and gazed absently at the red footprints he’d left behind on the dirty concrete path but paid them no mind; that was not the most important thing on his mind right now.

He gotta get home real quick before he makes his mom mad. His mom said that he has to be back before dark because she baked him pastries and wants him to eat some before it turns cold. He walked faster and steadily approached the door of his own home, the burgundy paint of which was peeling off and revealing the wood underneath.

There, there, there. He placed his hand upon the faded bronze handle and pressed down. As soon as the door opened, the succulent scent of snickerdoodle cookies, brownies, and apple pies entered his nostrils, scents that he identified with. Scents that he had long assimilated under his schema of the concept of home.

“Hey, ma.” He murmured quietly as he placed his beloved bat and ball against the wall and closed the door behind him. “It’s smelling hella good in here. Where’s Jack? What’d you make?”

At the mention of his older sibling, his mother slowly turned around, a tired smile tugging at the corners of her ruby-red lips. Something was off with her, how she dressed herself up in her favorite dress that showcased her womanly curvatures in such a lovely manner with makeup plastered onto her skin, her hair indicated an extremely recent visit to the barbershop that he had missed while he was off to the baseball field.

“Well, hon, I made brownies, cookies, and some pie. You look tired, why don’t you come and sit at the table? These cookies just came out of the oven.” She placed a plate on the dining table and reckoned him forth with a wave of her oven-gloved hand. He obeyed, his eyes fixated on the small, circular treats that sat in a neat circular pattern on a chipped ceramic plate and reached for the top one. As he was biting down into its soft and delicious flesh, he heard a voice.

A voice recognized, a voice unexpected. A voice despised, a voice resented. A voice that made him pick up the slightest trace of cigarettes and cologne under the heavy mask of cinnamon and chocolate.

A voice that dripped with arrogance and a heavy French accent. “Jeremy.”

How strange; it dripped with concern instead. Concern is usually his mother’s thing.

“Scout.”

_Don’t fucking Scout me, he thought._

“SCOUT!”

_Would you fucking stop that yapping?_

He came to awake when a pair of hands were shaking his shoulders. They kept a tight grip on his shoulder blades that it sort of hurts.

“Okay, alright, Ma.” He slurred and plucked at the fingers that were digging into his flesh, peeling them off and flopped onto his stomach so his face is pressed against the bedsheets and away from the intruder, hoping that if he left him alone, the said intruder would lose interest and leave.

“If you will NOT RISE I WILL MAKE YOU RISE! WITH! MY! AMERICAN! BOOTS!” The hands re-established themselves on his shoulders and shook him even harder than before. “YOU HAVE MISSED THREE MEALS IN A ROW DUE TO YOUR LAZINESS, SOLDIER!”

“Fuck off, Sol.” He attempted to push Soldier away but to no avail, “Wait, three meals?”

“Yes sir, you have missed THREE MEALS and a MORNING TRAINING SESSION and that is UNACCEPTABLE!” Soldier pulled his boneless body and dumped him on the floor, from which Scout sat up with a groan.

“What time is it?”

Soldier gave a salute, his helmet bounced up and down with his motion, “It is sixteen-hour sharp, maggot!”

Wait, he got out of shower around six…

Cautiously he added, “Then what day is it?”

Even Soldier realized something was amiss; he adjusted the grenades strapped to his chest with his index finger and shifted his helmet upwards to get a better look at Scout, his electric-blue eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Saturday in the glorious USA. Did you come back stupid, Scout?”

Oh, shit. He took a larger dose than usual and he missed dinner on Friday and nearly all of Saturday. His teammates are going to fucking—

“What’s this?” To Scout’s surprise and dismay, Soldier grabbed the pill bottle next to his pillow and shook it, rattle rattle rattle. Scout sprung from the floor like a dog to the sound of can openers and nearly jumped on Soldier, who held it up as high as he could and flung his helmet off with the flip of his hand to examine the bottle directly above his head and narrowed his eyes once more.

He fended Scout off from climbing him while spelled out the small black text on the label, “One...M...G… X…”

Scout practically punched Soldier as hard as he could, who barely reacted to his assaults. “Dammit, Jane, gimme it!” He jumped as high as he could to grab it just to be pushed away again, the motion made him dizzy and nauseous, “Give it BACK!”

“Xan… Axe.” Soldier turned the bottle in his hand, “You druggie! What in Uncle Sam’s name is a ‘Xanax’?” He scooped Scout up with a swift motion of his free arm and slammed him against the bed and pinned him down by his neck, “What says you about this XANAX of yours? You filthy addict! Coward!”

“GHhhgh… erhghH…” Scout clawed at the hand at his throat, which loosened considerably to allow some words of confession to past through his lips. “It’s… For my headaches… Let… Go…”

Seemingly satisfied by his explanations, the patriotic American finally let loose his iron grip and placed his hands on the shoulders of Scout instead, who didn’t have the guts to shake them off. “Will it help you fight better for America?”

Whatever. “Yes, yes, Soldier, it will help.”

“O-kay.” Soldier dropped him among the tangled covers and snapped into a salute, “See me in training gym at twentieth-hour shar--”

Scout groaned. “Do I have to make up the morning training session or whatever the fuck?”

“AFFIRMATIVE!” With that, Soldier exited his room and swung the door into its closing position with a loud BANG that made Scout’s ears ring with a surge of a headache. He shook his head. Who was he kidding?

He dumped what remained in the bottle into his mouth and swallowed, not sure if he was more surprised about how concern and caring Soldier’s gesture was or Soldier’s hidden ability to read.

\--

“Doktor!” The Russian giant addressed their Medic with a gruff, muffled voice, a bit bubbly because he was speaking with his face buried in a cup of tea, “It is chess time with Heavy. Play chess.”

Scout laid on the sofa in the common room with his baseball cap low on the top of his face, obscuring nearly everything except for a small strip of vision on the very bottom. He peered out from under the hat at the couple as they walked together to Heavy’s room, where a chess set was already put up for their weekend game. Medic has been having an unusually high amount of alcohol kindly supplied by Demoman. Though he was yet to be rendered into an alcohol-induced puddle, he was struggling to stand up from the wooden chair that he currently occupied and released a series of shrill giggles whenever he falls back onto his chair despite Heavy’s effort in gently pulling him up. Muttering something that suspiciously sounded like “boneless baby-man” under his breath, Heavy carried the doctor horizontally under his left arm and walked out of the room with such agility that was unfitting of his stature, closing the door carefully behind him.

Downing another gulp or two of Demoman’s Scotch whiskey, Scout leaned back into the cushions until the soft feather pillows and the warm buzz of alcohol had him in a secure embrace. He could stop worrying about eating or the empty pill bottle that laid amongst all others underneath his bed and he did, looking idly at the swirling amber liquid inside his glass and wondering whether the respawn will restore his liver at all.

“Aye, lad. Dinnae ye drink so much.” Demo slurred with a soft belch, “Sorry.”

Scout hummed in response, immobile in his benzo-daze. When will it run out this time?

Demoman put his bottle down on the coffee table with a considerable bang, but Scout did not react to it.

“That much is too much for ye wee bahoochie.” He spoke in a drunken murmur, his brown eye looked straight into Scout’s with something akin to worry.

“Leave me alone, Demo.” Scout downed another gulp and stood up-- fortunately he was not too drunk-- and went for the exit. Chess time was always the perfect opportunity to get his hands on the medical cabinet contents, and he wasn’t going to let it slip; he will have to grab whatever he can to keep that chill a bit longer. A bit stronger.

"Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye." Demo yelled after him, which Scout had dismissed in his drunken stupor. He heard Demo slurring and sobbing about being a “cyclops” and a “monster”, but he couldn’t summon a bit of regret or sympathy for him. All was at peace within himself as he slowly opened the infirmary door and invited himself in.

Valium, valium, valium. He carefully lifted each white bottle off from the shelves but to no avail, some completely unrelated to his endeavor and some covered in unintelligible writings in what Scout assumed to be German. His head swam a bit and he noticed that he had been staring at the same bottle for a solid minute or two, unable to recognize anything even if it were in English.

His eyes widened, panicking as the scaffolding of the last of his pills began to fade away. No, no, not so soon. Please. He slammed the metal cabinet door shut with a bang and started going through the second one, his quivering fingers knocked over several small plastic containers but he couldn’t have cared less. He’s going to die. This time he’s gonna die and nobody will be here to save him. The bottle that laid beneath his bed now an empty hole in his chest, expanding and conquering what was left of him as frantic spasms claimed his body and he could hardly see anything through the veil of tears that obscured his vision.

Another crash; this time, the numerous little amber shards of glass scattered across the floor dotted with little blue pills that he had no name and no use for. He stared at it in silence, tears a continuous flow that spilled out of his eyes and dropped on the ceramic tiles beneath him. He’s gonna die. His eyes were near bulging as he let out a quiet, choked sob.

This is it. This is where everything ends. He knelt down with a low thud, pain seeping into his knees and his legs like a thousand needles as he wailed in fear and sorrow. He’s never going back to that little apartment again. He’s never going to see mom again. His life ends at the middle of nowhere, here in the middle of nowhere. He glared blankly at the floor and the glass fragments glistened under the white fluorescent light, reflecting a constellation of bright, dancing stars like thousands of eyes that looked back at him, glaring at him, mocking his haste decisions and foolish mistakes. He picked up a handful and squeezed, pain shot up his arms as the red and the lights blend into one blinding firework in his teary eyes, yet another indicator that told him his pharmaceutical protection is no longer with him.

With another shaky whimper, Scout dumped himself face-first to the floor. Another crash; it sounded like something expensive. Scout tipped his head up and saw the remnants of Medic’s mug on the floor before a pair of polished black boots.

Oh.

“H-hey, doc.”Scout pulled himself up and tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. He hated how weak he felt and how shaky he sounded, his voice cracking uncharacteristically at the edges as he spoke, “’m sorry bout the mess.”

“Mein Gott…”Medic breathed in and gawked at the scene before him. There was this absolute beauty within youth, its shape and form, its sinew and bones, such youth have always fascinated him. What more could he ask for if this purity was thrown into a blender with degeneracy and gore and blended into an even, grotesque mix? The boy knelt in a pool of broken glass like a maiden knelt deep in her prayers upon the aged surface of a renaissance painting, his skin-- so wonderfully tender and youthful as it was-- now was tainted with blood. Blood on his legs and his knees, blood on his hands and his arms, even on his face blood had walked its sinful path around and down his sunken eyes, from which tears had joined the party as well while those baby-blues were staring straight at him, bulging with shock and panic. The white corrupted by red, the innocence tainted by filth-- it was all too much for him to take in as he drank in the sight eagerly. God, he wanted to have this little boy pinned down like a butterfly, this single moment of perfection permanently preserved as the finest addition to his collection-- but soft, behold; for that there is another beauty in impermanence.

Scout pushed himself up against the bloodied tiles with difficulties, wincing as more glass sank into the unprotected portions of his hands. Everything was spinning around him and he could barely stand, his bloody knees were knocking against each other as he stumbled across the room just to fall on his knees at Medic’s feet, his hands wringing and pulling at the stained bandages wrapped around his wrists and desperately felt around for his vitals.

A wretched sob escaped his throat.

“Please doc, please please please I beg you please,” he bawled and tightened his fingers around Medic’s spotless uniform, rivulets of tears rolled down his pale cheeks, “Please save me!”

Gently, Medic removed his fingers one by one from the snow-white fabric and heaved him up with a low grunt, his steps a bit unsteady but he managed to place the boy onto the metal surface of the examination table. He turned on his heels and headed toward his toolbox for some tweezers, but a hand stopped him dead in his tracks.

In his peripheral vision, a shaking, dripping hand stretched outwards at him, a segment of soaked bandage dangled few inches below. He could barely breathe.

“Am I gonna die?” Scout croaked weakly as involuntary convulsions rippled through his body, the vulnerability in his voice sent a shiver of excitement through Medic’s very core.

“Nein.” His kept his tone as flat as possible as he unlocked the innermost compartment of the top drawer of his desk and took out a bottle, one that was identical to Scout’s except that it rattled as Medic turned it and pretended to examine its label.

“Doc…” Scout sat up, his back was stiff and straight, his eyes now fully fixated on the object in Medic’s gloved hands as if it were the center of his whole universe. “Please?”

Medic chuckled and placed it on a mobile cart that was just out of Scout’s reach. He picked up the Kritzkrieg and flipped the switch on, took a deep, long drag before aiming at Scout and pulling the lever. The healing blue beam surrounded Scout and the pulsing pain and broken glass went away slowly, his bodily wounds scabbing and closing. However, it did not relieve him of the cold sweat and tremors that seized his body, the withdrawal effects had him in a chokehold as he frantically searched for a pulse, a heartbeat, anything.

“Please, doc, just gimme it!” Scout howled as if he was in pain and jumped for the bottle, but Medic was quick in snatching it away from him. Scout watched in despair as he dropped the bottle into his breast pocket, somewhere far more unobtainable and beyond his reach.

Ignoring Scout’s fervent pleas, Medic turned and called out to the empty infirmary: “Herr Spy, he is ready.”

At first, there was not a sound save for the gentle cooing of the doves that Medic had kept as pets. “What?” Scout demanded, his eyes widened as the BLU silhouette of another man slowly materialized before him, a sly smirk contorting his dashing visage.

The tinge of cigarette smoke. Cologne. He felt like he might throw up.

 _This is not my father_ , he reassured himself as to suppress the black grains that danced in his vision. _Just our Spy._

No, he can’t do it. There is simply no way. This is different. This is fucked up. Medic had already demanded more than his fair share and this is just too fucking much.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded quietly, “Medic, please, I can’t--”

 _RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE._ His eyes snapped open, the bottle was the first thing that filled his entire field of vision. An animalistic roar left his throat as he made a go for it, but it was taken away from him again; he was slow and weak and he had to summon every single thimble of self-control that had ever existed in him to not jump on the doctor like a wild dog. He could not possibly overpower both of them. They will simply stop him, mock him and punish him.

“Now that’s a good boy.” Spy’s voice was viscous and sibilant; he sounded amused. “Well now, docteur, would you mind--”

A hand clad in the softest leather ghosted at the side of his cheek as Scout tried to stay completely still. He felt his chin was tipped up ever so gently and before he knew it, Spy leaned in for a kiss, along with which a pill slipped in and down his throat.

_Oh, oh, oh._

The trembling slowly came to a stop but it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

Like the good little boy-toy he was, he knelt before them and took them in with half-lidded eyes. Several hours later, he wondered if it was worth it at all when he laid wasted and spent on his bedroom floor, no shots of whiskey nor handful of pills could chase out the taste of cock in his mouth and the semen that slowly rolled down his taint but it was alright; everything was mellow and well as he unenthusiastically tugged at his cock and fantasized about finding love.

**Author's Note:**

> [Verse 2: Yung $carecrow]  
> Woke up dope sick with a cut wrist  
> Lil' bad bitch sayin' here's a plot twist  
> "When you cut it you weren't even a lil piss  
> Just a grin on your face, sayin' watch this"  
> Now I'm sittin' back thinkin' how sick am I?  
> But that went away the moment I got high  
> I'm saying: "now what it do, who are you?  
> Get the fuck out my living room  
> Get the fuck out my mental too"  
> What, bitch? You can't hear when I talk to you?  
> Now I'm back to square one with my hand on the gun  
> Mama screaming: "son, don't do it  
> I love you, don't do it, don't do it, don't do.."  
> I can't help this feeling  
> Don't you see that I need all these prescriptions  
> This ain't no living  
> It's only a vision of the vicious cycle that is my addiction
> 
> ==
> 
> Please do leave a comment. Lyrics are from the song Low Key by $uicideboy$.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkRNCJsk030
> 
> Everything I have done had been utterly useless and I will likely fail in the future. For now I'm mellow too, yeah man. I'm hella mellow. They say, hey, accept who you are. So I accepted it: I'm a piece of shit. And hey, I'm mostly fine with it. And they say, hey, have a goal. So I set a goal. Go to college, have organized college life and a few side projects to showcase in my portfolio. I'm fine with that too. And then they say, you druggies need to stop taking drugs. And I look at my benzos and frown, huh. Do I really? I guess so. 
> 
> How do you wear chokers without looking like a thot? That's a hard question. Do real love exist? 
> 
> I don't know what kind of monster I was in my previous life that I reincarnated this close to hell.


End file.
